


The Right Thing For the Right Reason

by My_Alter_Ego



Category: White Collar
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Ankle Monitor, Gen, Heists, Loss of Trust, Prison, Rape/Non-con Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-05
Updated: 2019-02-20
Packaged: 2019-10-22 20:08:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17669213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/My_Alter_Ego/pseuds/My_Alter_Ego
Summary: Neal finds that he has to once again return to a life of crime. He has a good reason, but it’s one he can never share with Peter, and that causes their partnership to unravel with dire consequences.





	1. Chapter 1

Prologue

Accessing the roof of the Whitney Museum on Gansevoort Street proved to be challenging but not impossible. “Hot damn, Caffrey, you’ve still got what it takes,” Neal mentally congratulated himself. Although he really didn’t want to admit his apprehensions, a little part of the con man feared that his cat burglary skills might have withered on the vine while he had been hobbled these past years on the stupid ankle monitor. Neal huffed out a contented sigh and next pulled the small laser tool from his bag of tricks to cut a square into the building’s ductwork. He then slithered into the dark, metal tunnel illuminated by the beam from his headlamp and began inching his way along. He had memorized the maze and knew exactly where he needed to go as he exhaled the breath from his lungs each time he had to negotiate a tight corner. Neal emerged from his labyrinth after he had reached the ceiling over the security room where the alarm panel was located. After that little dismantling chore was out of the way, he pulled the tight hoodie up around his head and fitted the Donald Trump rubber mask over his face. As he went from room to room, he used a small aerosol can of black paint to blind the all-seeing eyes mounted high up on the walls.

Neal stealthily continued on his journey through the corridors until he came to the Warhol painting of “ _Superman_.” Pop Art really wasn’t his thing. He preferred the grandiosity of the great masters, but different strokes and all that. He carefully removed the three-foot square painting and rolled it up tightly. Next, there was a quick stop in the Museum Store to snag an art tube, and then it was on the mailroom where he carefully addressed a label and affixed the proper postage. Neal buried the stolen item in the middle of a pile of other packages on a trolley awaiting pick up the next morning when they would begin to wend their way to their far-flung destinations. The Warhol was going to a PO Box in Poughkeepsie where a “John Smith” would retrieve it.  

As Neal gathered up his equipment after rappelling back down the outside of the building to the street, he found himself hoping this little caper tonight was a one and done. However, a little voice in his head kept saying that was wishful thinking. Somebody had Neal by the short hairs and that was a very unpleasant feeling.

 One Week Earlier

Neal and Mozzie were involved in a chess game with wine glasses in hand when Neal’s phone shrilled. The LCD screen showed “Unknown Caller,” so Neal ignored it. A few seconds later, a ping told him he had a voicemail. Neal was curious, so he listened intently to an obviously mechanically-distorted threat. “Pick up the next call if you value the people in your life.” A few minutes later, there was another attempt by the “Unknown Caller.” Mozzie was ready to record the conversation with his phone as Neal pushed the speaker function on his own.

“Who is this?” Neal demanded.

There was a scornful snort before the voice answered, “That’s for me to know and you to never find out, chump. Now, you shut your mouth and listen up really close. I’ve got an errand for you to do in the next week and I’m not taking no for an answer.”

The voice then told him about stealing the Warhol painting and the disposal method down to the last detail of the address of the PO Box.

Now it was Neal’s turn to snort. “It seems as if you’re not too up on current affairs, _chump_. Thanks to an ugly piece of ankle jewelry, I can’t just decide to meander beyond a two-mile radius from my keepers at the FBI. So, it appears that you’ll just have to find yourself another _errand_ boy.”

“Don’t get all puffed up with your own deceit,” the voice warned. “I think you may have figured out a way around that little impediment. So, you just do what I’m telling you and your handler stays healthy. Try crossing me, and it’s lights out for that Burke drone. I’ll be in touch. That’s something you can count on.”

When Mozzie clicked off the recording function on his phone, he looked at Neal with raised eyebrows. “Do you think whoever that was really knows?” the little bald man whispered.

Mozzie was referring, of course, to the fantastic breakthrough he had made cracking Neal’s anklet. Well, maybe _totally_ cracking it was a bit of an overstatement. But he had made some serious inroads into the problem, and Rome wasn’t built in a day. Mozzie could deactivate Neal’s tracker after putting the live feed on a loop. There were still a few glitches that needed to be ironed out, however. The anklet had to remain exactly where it had been opened and it could not be moved from that spot. Also, there was a two-hour window, maybe three-hour, if the Fates were with them, before the transmission would stutter and dissolve into white static causing an alarm at the monitoring agency. Neal and Mozzie hadn’t tried it out yet, so this accomplishment still remained in the realm of unchartered territory.

“Did you tell anyone?” Neal asked his innovative little friend.

“No!” Mozzie fairly shouted, before timidly backpedaling a few seconds later. “Although I may have enlisted the help of a very technically gifted acquaintance to unravel a few snafus during the process.”

“Sally?” Neal asked.

“No, not Sally,” Mozzie answered. “There’s a guy who goes by the handle _Galaxy Probe_. That dude is a genius when it comes to hacking, and he may have aided me in my endeavor.”

 _“Galaxy Probe?”_ Neal remarked with puzzled sarcasm.

“Yeah, you know, like the guy can travel into the vast reaches of space,” Mozzie answered. “Although in this case, we’re talking about cyberspace. He goes where no man dares to go and takes a look around. He can’t be the source of the leak ‘cause he’s like a vault, and his knowledge is as secure as Fort Knox.”

“Everybody has a price, Moz,” Neal said cynically. “Confront him and see what he has to say for himself.”

Mozzie hastened to make a series of phone calls that entailed providing various passwords, arcane phrases, and obscure literary verses before he finally collapsed down in a chair. “I’ve called every nefarious character in the hacker world that I know and nobody has seen or heard from Galaxy Probe. It’s like the universe suddenly swallowed him up.”

“Could he be the voice on the phone, Moz?” Neal asked thoughtfully. “Maybe old _Mr. Probe_ decided to expand his cosmos and enter into the world of stolen artwork.”

“No way,” Mozzie argued. “That’s so not his thing. He gets his jollies by hacking into the impossible just for shits and giggles. It proves that he is intellectually superior to, well, just about everybody. Material things aren’t important to him. His reputation is, and he’d never compromise that for any amount of money. Somebody must have tortured it out of him because he’d never willingly sell me out. If he’s off the grid, I have to fear the worst,” Mozzie ended sadly.

“So, you think I should take the threat to Peter’s life seriously,” Neal asked in dread.

“Right now, I don’t know what to think,” Mozzie admitted.

Neal pondered the dilemma. “If I tell Peter about this, he’ll ground me like a truant teenager. Then, he’ll strut around, big as life on the streets, just to prove he’s macho and fearless.”

“Yeah, I can picture that,” Mozzie agreed. “Unfortunately, such a testosterone-driven response may not bode well for Mrs. Suit. She’s much too young to become a widow.”

“I think I’ll give it a day before I take any action, one way or the other,” Neal finally decided.

~~~~~~~~~~

Neal wondered just how valid the implied threat was. Had Mozzie’s hacker friend actually been forced to disclose certain delicate information and that admission had gotten him silenced forever? The con man still hadn’t decided what to do the next morning as he exited a cab near the front of the Federal Building with a paper coffee cup in hand. When he saw Peter approaching from the opposite direction, Neal was prepared to paste a welcoming smile on his face until he spied the little yellow dot dancing across the FBI agent’s forehead. Neal lunged forward and collided with Peter, knocking his handler out of harm’s way. He also succeeded in splashing a bit of coffee onto Peter’s shirt.

“Damn it, Neal,” Peter roared. “What’s going on with you? Don’t tell me you’re drunk and reeling at 9 am in the morning!”

“Sorry, sorry,” Neal hastened to say. “I think I just tripped over my own feet. Did the coffee burn you?”

“The Neal I know has the reflexes of a cat,” Peter said suspiciously as he swiped at his shirt. “Is this just a bit of childish payback for me making you do mortgage fraud all day yesterday?”

“Peter, please, I’m not that petty,” Neal sputtered as he all but shoved Peter towards the doors of the building while shielding him with his own body as much as possible.

Peter continued to look perplexed and wary during the ride up in the elevator, and Neal breathed a relieved sigh when he trundled off to the men’s room to scrub the coffee stains with water and paper towels. The paroled felon had barely sat down at his own desk when a text arrived. “Taking me seriously now?”

“Very,” was Neal’s short reply.


	2. Chapter 2

Even after Neal had done the anonymous would-be assassin’s bidding a few nights later, the little paranoid part of Neal’s brain had been right on the money with its prophetic predictions. He now found himself indentured to yet another master—an ominous, nasty voice on his phone that kept insisting that more was better. Over the coming weeks, there were several other forays outside the lines, and Neal was walking a tight rope to keep Peter safe.

A 17th century gold diadem known as the “Crown of the Andes” left the Metropolitan Museum of Art during the dark of night. Not only was this treasure an exquisite piece of old Spanish craftsmanship, it was also studded with large, pear-shaped emeralds. Neal reverently placed it in a locker at Grand Central Station.

Next, a small 9x12 Albrecht Durer engraving of Adam and Eve done in the 14th century left the Frick Museum secured in bubble wrap before being stowed aboard an interstate moving company’s van in Red Hook. And, just last week, the world’s most valuable coin, a 1933 Double Eagle twenty-dollar gold piece, was stolen from its display case at the New York Historical Society. After that caper, Neal had placed the prize in a small, padded envelope which he then taped to the underside of a table in a booth at an all-night diner down in the Village.

~~~~~~~~~~

On this particular morning, Neal was seated across from Peter in the Agent’s office with the proof of his intrepid but illicit expertise spread across the desk. “If I didn’t know any better,” Peter said thoughtfully, “I’d say all of these heists are your work, Neal. The theft of the Warhol has all the earmarks of the time you lifted Rafael’s _St. George and the Dragon_ from that Washington DC museum years ago. In fact, it’s practically the same modus operandi.”

“ _Alleged_ theft,” Neal reminded Peter with a cheeky grin.

“Yeah, sure, the _alleged_ theft,” Peter answered with a scowl before continuing his skeptical musing.

“I just have a hard time wrapping my head around the fact that you have a copycat admirer somewhere out there who has scrupulously studied your past handiwork,” Peter continued as his eyes seemed to drill holes into his CI.

“Do you really think all of my alleged magnificent exploits are chronicled and annotated in some criminal handbook?” Neal asked innocently.

“Does it make you feel flattered that someone is imitating you, Neal, or maybe you feel a bit miffed that somebody is now stealing your thunder?” Peter asked cynically.

“Well, I never actually copyrighted anything,” Neal said with a smile, “so I guess I can’t complain. Look, Peter, stop being so suspicious. I’m sure you checked my anklet data and you know exactly where I was when all these shocking crimes went down,” Neal scoffed.

“You can bet your ass I did,” Peter reassured his little felon. “And I’ll continue to pull up a map of your movements every night, so I hope you’re not into sleepwalking because that may not end well for you.”

“Knock yourself out, Buddy,” Neal threw over his shoulder as he glided out of the claustrophobic little office with the glass walls that made it seem like a fishbowl.

Once he was back at his desk, a dull headache began to settle behind Neal’s eyes. He faced the ominous fact that he had succeeded in digging himself into a very deep hole. He had started out with the best of intentions, doing the wrong thing for the right reason. He wanted to keep Peter safe. If he spilled his guts now, Peter couldn’t just sweep everything under the rug and make it all go away. It was too late for that, and the agent would still be at risk. Even if the FBI set a trap for the master manipulator, that anonymous voice on the phone was probably too wary to pick up the ill-gotten goods himself. He’d probably send an underling to do the dirty work and he’d still be out there somewhere plotting murderous revenge. Neal didn’t see any way out of this whole dilemma.

While Neal was worrying, Peter was intently staring down at the man who was his responsibility. His infamous gut was telling him something was out of kilter. The US Marshal’s Service had eyes on Neal 24/7, so he couldn’t personally be involved. But maybe the slick con man had circumvented that little problem by training an apprentice in his spare time, and now there was a Caffrey clone on the loose in New York City. That was a scary thought, to put it mildly. Peter knew he needed to be extra vigilant.

Since the logic behind Neal’s parole on the anklet was that it takes a thief to catch another thief, Peter kept his CI on the job to find the new culprit. It was like instances of déjà vu for Neal as he revisited the numerous scenes of his crimes. He cooperated by pointing out exactly how each stupendous feat had been accomplished, but that was redundant information since the Forensic Teams had already been over everything with a fine-tooth comb. The only things the Feds didn’t know were the identity of the thief and where the items went after the deeds were done.

“I’m going to catch this guy,” Peter vowed in angry frustration, “and it ain’t gonna be pretty when I put him away.”

Neal didn’t respond to Peter’s ranting. He was too worried about the latest directive that had been delivered the night before. It was going to be dicey and dangerous—more treacherous and much riskier than all the other capers combined. Neal had to break into the FBI’s evidence locker, and even though he repeatedly told his criminal manipulator that you don’t crap where you eat, the voice was insistent. He wanted the century-old Marc Chagall painting languishing there. He also upped the ante by not only threatening Peter, but also Elizabeth. “You wanna make it a twofer, chump? I can make that happen. Maybe, if I’m feeling charitable, I’ll let the dog live.” So, yet again, Neal found himself between a rock and a hard place, and he was forced to set his sights on another prize for his anonymous collector.

The actual saga of how the old Chagall painting came to be in the FBI’s possession was a bit convoluted. Over thirty years ago, the painting titled, _Othello and Desdemona,_ was part of an inside job heist that included over $750,000 in jewels as well as artwork from a ritzy New York apartment on the Upper East Side. The thief had offloaded the masterpiece to a fence who took it to Maryland. A deal with the Bulgarian mob eventually fell through, and the middleman had stashed the prize in his attic for safekeeping. Thirty years later, well after the statute of limitations had run out, the fence tried to sell the piece to a Washington gallery, but the owner was suspicious because it came with no paperwork supporting its authenticity or provenance. The wary man notified the FBI. Even though they couldn’t prosecute the fence, the FBI confiscated the painting and brought it back to New York. The original owners, Ernest and Rose Heller, had since passed away, so the masterpiece would be ceded over to their estate in just a few days. Neal knew he had to work fast.

It wasn’t hard to lift a probie’s credentials at the end of the day—just a quick shoulder bump, a slick hand to the man’s waist, and a smiling apology as Neal made his way out of the building. The poor sucker wouldn’t need to use his badge until he returned to work the next morning when he had to swipe his way through the front door. Neal returned at 3 am dressed in a cleaning crew get-up, complete with a wide-brimmed ball cap pulled low over his eyes. He pushed his cart with industrial solvents and detergents past a sleepy-eyed sentry outside the Aladdin’s Cave of treasures. Nobody ever seemed to be suspicious of a person who looked like they were doing exactly what their appearance suggested. He deftly avoided the cameras, and it was child’s play to pick the lock of a gated cage. Neal shook his head in disgust. The FBI sorely needed some serious upgrades in the security department, and Neal could certainly give in-depth lectures on that very subject.

After the Chagall painting was discretely tucked inside Neal’s cart, it eventually found its way down to the bowels of the building and out the back door. Neal had left Mozzie’s Yellow Cab parked at the curb, and he proceeded to a local church where a large metal structure stood in the back lot. It was a collecting receptacle for donated clothes and shoes that would eventually be given to the needy and homeless. Neal pushed the painting that was wrapped in a blanket through the large opening at the top and motored away leaving a priceless masterpiece behind.

Needless to say, the White Collar Unit was in a frenzy the next morning when the theft was discovered. A very confused and nervous probie was immediately put on suspension when it was discovered that his badge had gotten the thief into the building during the wee hours of the morning. Neal felt really bad about the dude’s ultimate fate, but, unfortunately, collateral damage had been unavoidable because Neal had to look at the big picture. He just couldn’t live with Peter or Elizabeth’s death on his conscience.


	3. Chapter 3

After the audacious theft of the Chagall, Peter’s gut was in overdrive. It took a lot of chutzpah to boldly breach the FBI’s citadel, and alarm bells were clanging in the agent’s head. He hastily pulled up Neal’s ankle monitoring map from the previous night and stared at a little blinking dot. The tracker was supposed to be accurate down to fifteen feet, so Peter knew it was located on Neal’s tiger oak bed where it had remained from midnight until 7 am when it began to move as Neal presumably arose to get ready for work. Peter then backtracked to the nights of the other heists and found very similar results. It seemed as if once Neal retired for the night, he lay like a piece of lox in a deli display case for seven or eight straight hours. Not once did he get up to go to the bathroom or to get a glass of water. That was very curious and improbable, so it was a lot to swallow for a suspicious FBI agent. Leaving his CI behind late in the afternoon just before quitting time, Peter took himself to the Marshals Building farther uptown. He actually spoke with a tech supervisor who was willing to talk specifics about the monitoring system.

“The model that your CI is wearing is said to be tamper-proof, and we would have gotten an alert if he monkeyed with it in any way,” the man assured Peter. “If somebody decided to take a crowbar to it, we’d know immediately because it would go offline.”

“Uh huh,” Peter said softly. “Just to put my fears to rest, could you do me a favor, as one professional to another, and actually take a look at the data on these particular nights?” Peter asked as he quickly provided the dates of the other thefts.

“Sure,” the other man said with a sigh. Sometimes these prima donna FBI Agents could be a real pain in the ass.

The two men sat, side by side, in an alcove before a computer with a huge display as hours of Big Brother monitoring flashed by. “What are those miniscule little sparks of light that I see on the screen during my designated time frames?” Peter asked the specialist.

“In the trade vernacular, we call them static artifact, and they’re quite common,” the techie informed him. “The transmissions from the mobile monitors can be impacted by many things such as the occasional solar flare, nearby high-speed fiber-optics, or even if a person stands in front of their kitchen microwave. What you pointed out were just tiny, insignificant blips on the radar, and we dismiss them unless the activity continues unabated. Happy now?”

Peter was far from happy and he set out for Neal’s loft with an agenda. He wasn’t buying into solar flares or microwaves!

~~~~~~~~~~

In the meantime, Neal and Mozzie were having their own deep discussion in the apartment on Riverside Drive. The short bald man had practically taken root in Neal’s place each evening as they awaited further calls from the demanding phantom with no face. Being OCD, the paranoid little soul had meticulously recorded each call on his own phone as he listened to the distorted voice on speaker.

“I’ve got to get out from under this thing,” Neal said firmly. “As long as I’m a sitting duck, that jerk will just keep returning to the well, time after time. Maybe I won’t be able to pull off one of his demands and Peter will wind up dead. I just can’t take that chance.”

“So, what’s your plan? How are you going to end the tyrannical hold this freak has on you?” Mozzie asked.

“I think I’ve got to remove myself from the equation so I’m no longer at his beck and call,” Neal answered slowly.

Mozzie suddenly brightened. “Does that mean what I think it means? Are we finally going on a road trip?”

“Actually, I’m thinking more like we soar away on a jumbo jet far from all this drama,” Neal answered. “I need to disappear, Moz. My escape will make the front page, so my nemesis will soon realize that he has lost his puppet along with any leverage over me. I’ll toss my phone to sever our connection permanently. Then Peter and Elizabeth will be safe, and even Satchmo can live out his remaining days in the Burke’s back yard in Brooklyn. So, can you get the wheels turning to make that happen, Moz?”

“Is the Pope Catholic?” Mozzie beamed.

A happy sidekick was just about to begin the process when both he and Neal heard heavy stomping footfalls on the stairs. Mozzie’s eyes grew wide behind his glasses and he hastily scrambled towards the alcove that led to the dressing area equipped with a two-way mirror. Not a second later, Neal’s door was flung wide and a scowling Peter entered without an invitation.

“Peter, what brings you here?” Neal asked casually while ignoring the rude entrance.

“These!” Peter barked as he flung an assortment of computer printouts onto the dining table.

Neal leaned over to briefly scan the pages before looking up. “What exactly am I supposed to see on this chronological collection of my tracking data?”

“Evidence of your crimes,” Peter snarled.

Neal sighed. “Maybe I’m missing something, Buddy, but nothing seems to jump out at me. According to these reports, I’ve always been exactly where I was supposed to be, and that was nowhere even close to the boundaries of my radius. So, what’s the problem?”

“The problem is really pretty simple,” Peter said menacingly. “You see, I _know_ you somehow managed to pull a Houdini act and get out of your chains. Then you went on your merry, plundering way picking up any little shiny thing that struck your fancy.”

“I appreciate the vote of confidence, Peter, but I really think you’re giving me way too much credit when it comes to any shapeshifting talents,” Neal said steadily.

“I said that I _know_ you were behind this recent series of robberies, Neal, so don’t insult me by trying to deny it,” Peter insisted as his tone increased in volume. “You’d lie to my face in a heartbeat!”

“I’ve never lied to you, Peter,” Neal replied softly in contrast to Peter’s strident pitch.

“Then tell me you aren’t the cat burglar culprit,” Peter insisted. “C’mon, let me hear the deceptive answer right from the horse’s mouth.”

“I’m not even going to dignify your ridiculous accusations by giving you any answer,” Neal answered stiffly. “Obviously, you’ve already made up your mind of my guilt, so what’s the point? Just let me ask you one thing, Peter. Where’s your proof? Gut feelings sure aren’t going to hold up in any court of law, nor are visions seen in crystal balls.”

“I intend to toss your crib from top to bottom,” Peter promised maliciously.

“You won’t find anything,” Neal answered shortly.

“Well, if that doesn’t pan out, maybe I’ll come back with a warrant and have a team start taking June’s mansion apart, piece by piece. She sure won’t be a happy camper about that!”

“Peter, why are you doing this?” Neal asked calmly. “Are you just so frustrated about these heists that you’re determined to pin them on somebody, and I’m the easiest and closest fall guy to take the rap, whether it’s justified or not? That’s a really handy solution to your problem, but can I ask what happened to the trust factor?”

Peter actually snorted in derision. “Trust has to be earned and we hadn’t reached that milestone in our relationship—not by a long shot. I know I can’t trust you any farther than I can throw you.”

Neal suddenly looked very disappointed. “What you should know, Partner, is that I’ve had your back since the first day I sat in your car when you picked me up from Sing Sing. I’d actually throw myself under a bus to protect you, Peter, whether you believe it or not. That’s an absolute truth that you can take to the bank.”

“I think the real _truth_ of the matter is that you’re a criminal with criminal impulses,” Peter replied sharply. “I naively thought I could turn you around, but maybe it’s imprinted on your genes and you can’t help yourself. Nevertheless, I can no longer have you by my side because, ultimately, you’ll pull me down with you. The deal between us was very specific. You’d serve at my pleasure and I didn’t need a valid reason to send you back behind bars. You’re only free if I agree to the arrangement. At this point, I’ve come to the sad conclusion that serving out the remainder of your sentence in prison is where you belong for both our sakes.”

“I guess you’ll do whatever you think you need to do,” Neal answered calmly, “and I’m certainly not in any position to stop you. I’m truly sorry that it’s come to this.”

“So am I,” Peter answered as he drew handcuffs from his belt and marched toward his confidential informant.

A short bald voyeur had heard everything from his covert hiding place, and his heart ached for his friend. Unfortunately, Mozzie had absolutely no idea what to do to change the situation that had quickly escalated to a dire flash point.


	4. Chapter 4

That night, Peter picked at the meal El had made. His wife was always sensitive to his moods and waited out the silence after Peter told her that he didn’t want to talk about his actions earlier that evening. Eventually, she climbed the stairs to their bedroom leaving her husband to wrestle with his demons alone. Peter was nursing a Scotch on the couch and trying to come to grips with what may have been a knee jerk reaction. If he was honest, Peter knew that the root of the problem was a sense of betrayal. Even though he had told Neal otherwise, he _had_ started to trust the young man, and Peter was never one to give his trust easily. Now, he felt like a fool who had been played by a conniving con artist. Peter viewed himself as a friggin’ cliché, and that cut deeply into the mantle of his confidence. He had always prided himself on being savvy and smart, and being outfoxed by a crafty manipulator left a festering wound. He had such high hopes for Neal. The guy was young and unjaded and Peter really thought he could realign a skewed moral compass. Being sent back to prison certainly wasn’t going to accomplish that, but it was Neal who had jeopardized the arrangement that would have given him a better life. Peter finally admitted that he would never understand Neal Caffrey or his motivations and, unexpectedly, that made him feel very sick at heart.

~~~~~~~~~~

Neal had previously spent almost four years in a federal prison. He had survived by keeping his head down and maintaining a low profile. This time around, that was impossible because his reputation had preceded him. Inmates really hated snitches and they took out their displeasure almost immediately. Neal was culled from the herd by a trio of tattooed skinheads as the inmate population made their way to breakfast. A quick fierce beatdown left him broken and bleeding on a cement floor. The attackers didn’t actually take it far enough to kill him. A quick shiv to the gut would have ended him in minutes. Instead, the vengeful prisoners intended to draw out Neal’s torment for their sadistic pleasure. By the end of the month, the young man had been sent to the infirmary three times.

Neal was a realist and knew he would never make it to the finish line of his remaining sentence. Two more years added up to a hell of a lot more beatings, and it was only a matter of time until one would prove fatal. He was almost resigned to his fate, but then the tormentors took it to another level of depravity. Undoubtedly, a flexible guard had been bribed to look the other way one afternoon as four hulking men dragged Neal into an unmonitored alcove in the exercise room. They held him face down and ripped at his jumpsuit until he was exposed and vulnerable to their attack. Each man took a turn pushing a rigid penis into him. The sodomizing was brutal as tissue was ripped apart and blood mingled with hot semen. Neal bit the inside of his cheek and a red frothy stream was now seeping out his mouth to join the blood  running from his nose. Neal had screamed at first as he valiantly struggled, but when the ruthless fucking continued over and over, he let himself sink into blessed oblivion. He did not die that day. Instead, he awoke to find himself in the prison ward of the local hospital.

The warden knew what had been happening on his watch and contemplated segregating the young victim from the general prison population. He also knew that long term isolation drove men mad. Somehow, the older custodian of an incarcerated rabble couldn’t reconcile sending a White Collar criminal to lockdown for the next two years. Solitary confinement was for the very worst of the worst criminals—the murderers and the serial killers who were repeat offenders until they were finally caught and taken off the streets. In his opinion, for whatever that was worth, someone like Neal Caffrey belonged in a Club Fed with other hustlers and charlatans of the Bernie Madoff ilk. So what if he was a flight risk? It wasn’t as if an innocent person was going to die by his hand if he walked out the door. Caffrey certainly didn’t deserve Sing Sing, no matter how many paintings he had stolen. But, it was what it was, and the warden didn’t get to make those decisions. He simply carried out whatever the convict’s sentence happened to be. That was the extent of his mandate to the federal judges who sat on the bench deftly meting out their brand of justice.

~~~~~~~~~~

After Neal had minor surgery to repair the internal damage done to his body, he languished for a few more days in the prison infirmary. During that time, he was told that his lawyer had arrived for a conference with his client. Since Neal was in no shape to walk to the visitor’s room, the “lawyer” came to him. Mozzie bustled in looking officious and stern while carrying a monogramed leather briefcase. He was also sporting a ridiculous toupee on his bald head. Of course, the prison guard did a thorough pat down while Mozzie scowled menacingly, and then took his time examining that leather satchel for weapons or contraband. When the sentry came up empty handed, he wanted to know what the engraved gold initials _C.D._ meant.

“Clarence Darrow,” Mozzie answered primly.

“Hey!” the young guard acknowledged as a light bulb went on in his head. “We learned about a guy named Clarence Darrow when I was in high school. He was some hot shot lawyer, like in another century, so you can’t be him.”

“How very astute of you. You were probably at the top of your class,” Mozzie snarked. “Of course, I can’t be him unless you believe in reincarnation. Mr. Darrow, bless his soul, was a civil rights paragon of justice from yesteryear and a hero of the downtrodden and oppressed. I’d never be able to hold a candle to his brilliance.”

“But you have his name,” the confused guard argued.

“And your point is?” Mozzie demanded as his eyes grew wide behind his wireframe spectacles.

“I guess I don’t have one,” the embarrassed kid finally admitted.

“Of course, you don’t,” Mozzie smirked. “Now, since you have already groped my family jewels and have satisfied yourself that there are no weapons of mass destruction in my briefcase, please take yourself across the room out of earshot. Conferences between lawyers and clients are sacrosanct and cannot be monitored or recorded.”

Mozzie finally turned towards a bruised and battered Neal after the annoyed guard slunk off to the other end of the room. He then pulled up a chair, opened his case, and plunked down a ream of printed material in front of his “client.”

“Moz, this is a copy of the United States Constitution,” Neal remarked as he quickly scanned the pages.

Yep,” Mozzie agreed, “the Bill of Rights and all the following twenty-seven amendments. I know it’s a bit tedious to review, but just take your time pursuing them and looking enthralled as I lay out my plan to get you out of this hellhole.”

Neal looked cynical. “As you just told that guy, you don’t have an Uzi in your bag of tricks, or even a guard’s uniform and credentials, so how do you intend to accomplish that miracle?”

“I have my ways,” Mozzie said smugly as his finger went to a line in the Constitution as if he was pointing out some salient legal fact in a particular clause. “I have eyes and ears in this place, Neal, and it’s long past time for you to make an exit. You certainly can’t survive much longer.”

“I agree with you, but how can you make it happen?” Neal asked plaintively without much hope in his voice. “Are you planning a humanitarian legal appeal or something along those lines?”

“Nah, that would take too long and the outcome would be iffy,” Mozzie stated firmly as he turned a page and pointed to another random line in the stack of papers. “We’re going to be proactive!”

“I’m all ears, Moz.,” Neal smiled.

“Well, I must give some credit where it is due,” the pseudo-lawyer began his explanation. “June has hidden depths and, thanks to her husband, she knows quite a few characters with rather dubious reputations. One such contact is going to be transferred to your cell block in a few days just about the time you’ll be discharged from the infirmary. I’ve seen a picture, and the guy is a real behemoth specimen, if the photo does him justice. That gentleman is going to accost you in a corridor and temporarily put your lights out. He’s supposed to pull his punch, but he has to make it look authentic. So, just go down for the count and don’t get back up. Don’t even open your eyes—play dead. If you don’t regain consciousness, then it’s off to the emergency room once again where I’m counting on the good doctors to perform an MRI of your brain to check for a bleed in your grey matter. That’s when we make the switch. I’ve paid off some guards to call in sick that day, and two imposters will be your escorts and whisk you on your way to where I’ll be waiting. At that point, we both hightail it out of Dodge. Capish?”

“Got it,” Neal whispered thankfully. “Moz, I …..”

“Don’t go there, Neal,” Mozzie interrupted. “I don’t need or desire your gratitude. You know you’d move heaven and earth to save my hide if the roles were reversed. Now, just remember to play your part with dazzling panache, and, in a few days, I’ll see you on the other side.”

~~~~~~~~~~

Mozzie hadn’t exaggerated when he described the new transfer to Neal’s unit. The huge African-American male was built like a tank. He had an enormous barrel chest and upper arms that resembled ham hocks that strained the fabric of his orange jumpsuit. He strutted around on tree trunk legs, and everyone gave him a wide berth. When he spied Neal lined up in the morning role call line, he stepped forward and grabbed the con man by the collar, flashed teeth encased in gold caps, and winked. In a nanosecond, he delivered a hard right fist to Neal’s jaw that caused the smaller man to stagger incoherently until he dropped to his knees and his head landed on the floor. Neal heard rather than saw the guards’ booted feet hustle to the scene and the grunts of the ensuing scuffle to restrain his attacker. _Mr. Roundhouse_   kept chanting, “That little fuckin’ pissant looked at me funny and nobody gets away with dissing me!”

Neal remained as limp as a ragdoll until eventually a gurney was brought in and his flaccid body was rolled away once again to the now familiar infirmary. He remained unresponsive even as he felt himself being poked and prodded and urged to wake up. He didn’t flinch when an IV needle entered his arm, and he fought the reflex to blink when a penlight was shone in his eyes. However, his hearing was very acute, so he heard the prison physician request an ambulance to take a patient with a suspected traumatic brain injury to the closest ER. It looked like it was a go with Mozzie’s outrageous scheme.

When Neal was buckled onto an EMT’s stretcher, he felt himself being hoisted into the back of a vehicle that quickly sped off with its siren blaring. He felt the presence of someone seated across from him as he was jostled during the bumpy ride, but Neal remained “comatose” until that presence shook him and said, “Wake up, Sleeping Beauty. It’s showtime.”

Neal cracked an eye and saw a guard quickly stripping off his clothes. “Get a move on, friend, we ain’t gotta lotta time to make this happen. We’re gonna swap clothes and you’re going to be me. After we arrive at our destination, just swagger nonchalantly out of the ER while I’m getting my head buzzed. My partner up front will drive to the next check point where you can make like smoke and evaporate into thin air.”

Much to Neal’s amazement, everything went as planned and a slippery criminal was, once again, in the wind.


	5. Chapter 5

A disgruntled Peter Burke made the now familiar trip to Ossining. He knocked on the warden’s door and gave a cynical smirk. “This is the second time that Caffrey has swanned out of here, Warden Haskley. Maybe this institution needs some security oversight.”

“Caffrey’s latest escape is _not_ on me,” the warden clarified. “He disappeared while at a hospital emergency room, so don’t get all up in my face and self-righteous.”

“You knew his reputation,” Peter objected. “This medical thing was all a big ruse and you should have seen through his shenanigans.”

“Shenanigans?” Haskley mocked with eyebrows raised. “It was more of a last ditch effort to stay alive.”

“What are you talking about?” Peter demanded.

“Well, I guess it’s all a case of out of sight, out of mind for you,” the warden replied cynically. “One day you arbitrarily decided that you had grown tired of your new toy so you brought him back here and put him on the shelf when the novelty wore off. The problem is, you had also succeeded in putting a big bull’s eye on his back and the repercussions were dire.”

“Well, that’s on him, not me,” Peter argued. “Caffrey could have stayed on the straight and narrow, and he knew the consequences if he veered off course. It was his choice to start being light-fingered again.”

“Excuse my ignorance, Agent Burke, but I don’t remember seeing any documentation that he had starting stealing things again. Perhaps you would be good enough to set the record straight,” the warden challenged.

“It was pretty obvious that he was the guilty party in some very upscale thefts,” Peter answered sharply. “While he’s been here for the last four months, there have been no more stupendous heists. Draw your own conclusions, Warden Haskley. I don’t think you’ll need a roadmap.”

“So, you don’t actually have any concrete proof, is that it?” Haskley questioned. “You just think you know stuff.”

“Yeah, and I’m very good at knowing things. It comes after years of experience,” Peter responded smugly.

“Well, I would venture a guess there are a lot of things you don’t know, Agent Burke. While you have been playing the part of a solo Batman, your Boy Wonder was circling the drain.” After that comment, the angry warden flung a pile of papers in Peter’s direction. “Take a good look at what’s been happening to Neal Caffrey for the last four months, and then tell me that he deserved what he got after you returned him like a defective piece of merchandise!”

Peter glared but he did pick up the packet and start to read. It wasn’t long before the bile rose up in his throat and waves of nausea assaulted him. He finally had to sit down as he read report after report chronicling a litany of injuries: concussions, fractured eye socket, broken ribs and collarbone, dislocated shoulder and fingers, bruised kidney, lacerated spleen. Finally, he thought he might actually get sick right there in the warden’s office as he read about the necessary surgical repair of torn rectal tissue.

“Like I said,” Warden Haskley said softly, “he escaped to save his own life. Maybe I can’t say that I blame him.”

“I have to find him,” Peter said just as quietly.

The warden knew the drill and was one step ahead. “I guess you’ll want to start the process just like you did once before because someone on the outside must have helped him. I have a copy of the visitor’s log right here. The only visitor he had was his lawyer just days before his escape. Here’s a CCTV photo of the man when he logged in at the prison checkpoint.”

Peter’s heart sank when he found himself staring at a ludicrous rendition of Mozzie with a full head of hair. A guilt-ridden FBI agent now knew that running down the pair of con men would be an exercise in futility, and maybe that was a good thing.

~~~~~~~~~~

Peter half-heartedly went through the motions, setting up road blocks leading out of the city, having agents lurking at bus and train stations, and checking manifests of passengers on flights out of LaGuardia, JFK, and even nearby New Jersey. As expected, there had been no trace of an escaped criminal. Every morning he had to endure seeing Neal’s handsome young face staring out at him from the FBI’s Most Wanted List displayed on a prominent wall. And every morning Peter was overwhelmed by a sense of failure—failure that he had let his hubris override any trust that had been achieved in slow, small increments. Peter was a man in torment. One moment, he was frustrated, and the next moment, a sense of thankfulness would take center stage in his mind. Maybe Neal had earned the right to be free, paying the cost with his own blood. Not even the _Mona Lisa_ was worth a man’s life.

Criminals never seem to take a holiday. In the weeks and months that followed Neal’s disappearance, there was always a new, shady culprit to pursue. Peter tried to keep his head in the game, but dealers importing knockoff handbags or accountants siphoning funds from unsuspecting capitalists were boring and tedious. Occasionally, there would be an actual art theft, but the jobs were unsophisticated and clumsy, so it wasn’t hard to run the thieves and their fences to ground. After a year, Peter knew he had descended into a monotonous rut. He never felt exhilarated by the hunt or intellectually challenged to find the discretely-hidden clues left behind. Was there not one criminal who possessed the brilliance and panache of a Neal Caffrey? Ultimately, Peter started looking at White Collar crimes in other states. Perhaps Neal and Mozzie had decided to give the Sun Belt a try, or maybe even the West Coast or Vegas. When Peter’s boss, Special-Agent-in-Charge Reese Hughes, got wind of that pastime, he quickly nipped it in the bud.

“Peter, stop tormenting yourself. Neal Caffrey is the one who got away. Get over it and move on. We have our fair share of criminals right here in New York City. Don’t go borrowing trouble.”

Peter couldn’t seem to find the right words to explain his actions. He wasn’t trying to borrow trouble or settle a score. Maybe he was on a mission to make things right between two fractured partners. No matter what Neal may have done, he hadn’t deserved what Peter’s rash actions had set into motion. Somehow, Peter wanted to make this right. Unfortunately, the opportunity to make amends never occurred.

Three more years down the road, Reese Hughes retired and handed off the baton to his second in command. Now Peter spent more time behind a desk than out of the streets pounding the pavements or having eyes on an actual crime scene. Elizabeth was probably the only person happy about the new arrangement. In her mind, Peter was safer in an office where nobody could shoot at him. Peter didn’t share her enthusiasm. He suddenly felt old and tired, and being removed from the action dulled his once sharp perceptions and his dogged tenacity to get his man. Like hundreds of other drones in the work force, he was just putting in his time to ensure a pension when that ominous benchmark of retirement was reached in the not too distant future. Time had also quieted his zeal to find his former partner. To Peter’s knowledge, nothing that smacked of Neal Caffrey and his cleverness had ever popped up on the radar.

Then, one morning as Peter was preparing to fold the _New York Times_ into a square so that he could work on the crossword puzzle, a tiny little blurb caught his attention. It was just a brief story written by a foreign correspondent that had been picked up by UPI, a well-known global news agency. Peter curiously read the details with great interest. He was well aware of an elusive cartel of international thieves who had christened themselves the _Pink Panthers_ , no doubt as a shout out to the old film noire movie of the same name. They were ruthless and deadly as they stole everything from artwork to gold, and it wasn’t unusual to find a few dead bodies left behind in their wake. No one in law enforcement knew their actual number or who was the titular head, so their mayhem had spread like a fungus throughout Europe, Asia, and finally across the pond to right here in the States. Recently, some very high-profile thefts had occurred in Washington, Chicago, and New York City. Peter’s team had been diligent in their investigations, and even Organized Crime got involved when someone thought there might be a connection to the Russian mob. Unfortunately, no headway was made in the Panthers’ apprehension, and Peter suspected the members of that nefarious clan may have returned to old haunts in Europe.

Today’s news article made Peter aware that the French Police Nationale had apprehended two suspected members of the Pink Panthers as they attempted a clandestine raid on the Louvre. The fortuitous feat of catching them had been accomplished only because of some very brilliant security safeguards recently installed in the world-renowned museum. Those built-in safeguards had immediately alerted the gendarmerie. The thieving pair were quickly nabbed in the act and were currently under heavy guard in Paris as interrogators sought to entice them to give up their other cohorts.

Peter’s gut urged him to take action. These foreign criminals were most likely part of the team that had recently been causing trouble right here in his backyard, and a now determined FBI Agent wanted his own shot at putting some questions to them. If he was successful in getting the right answers, he was hoping that he could eventually get them extradited back to New York to stand trial. Peter made some transatlantic phone calls until he reached his French counterpart and pled his case. Finally, a haughty Frenchman granted him an audience with the criminals, so more phone calls were made to an airline and a modestly-priced hotel room in the City of Light. Peter suddenly felt focused and alive again.


	6. Chapter 6

Peter had never been to Paris, and he had to admit that it was charming and appealing. It seemed that cities in the United States liked to bulldoze old buildings so that soaring new skyscrapers could take over the landscape of what was once a venerable part of history. Sure, some places were designated as historical landmarks, but progress usually trumped all. Conversely, Paris celebrated its old legacy that predated the rise of Colonial America by centuries. People still owned or rented apartments in structures that had probably witnessed the likes of Marie Antoinette, Louis XIV, Robespierre, and the French Revolution. El had once dragged her reluctant husband to Broadway to see the celebrated play, _Le Misérables_ , and scenes of those makeshift barricades and rebel blood seeping into cobblestones superimposed themselves on the 21st century streets before Peter’s eyes.

Peter then reminded himself that he was not here for gawking and sightseeing. He was here in an official capacity representing the FBI. After barely landing at Orly Airport, he was on his way to La Santé Prison located in the Montparnasse district. It was an iconic jail with a long history currently being operated by the French Prison Service. This imposing edifice was where the two suspects were being detained for questioning. Peter was to meet with an Inspector named Lucien Reynald. Thankfully, the man was fluent in English, however, the tale he told Peter was extremely depressing. The visiting FBI agent was informed that the suspects being held had been discovered dead in their cells that morning.

“One managed the feat by tearing the sheets from his cot and hanging himself from an overhead pipe that was part of the plumbing system,” Reynald intoned solemnly. “The other determined man continued to saw at his wrists with a plastic fork until he reached the arteries and veins. It most likely took him a long time to leave this world.”

Peter was shocked, and he had to ask, “Was there ever any doubt that these two men were guilty of the crime?”

“Never,” Reynald replied firmly. “As you Americans like to say, _it was as plain as the nose on your face_. The police literally caught them with a Rembrandt, a Titian, and a Cézanne in their hands trying to get out the door.”

“And you think they were part of the Pink Panther organization?” Peter pushed.

“Oui, but of course,” Reynald seemed convinced. “Just like you, we keep our ears to the ground and we listen very carefully when we hear interesting things. Certain people let it be known that a secret fraternity of criminals were very concerned after the aborted theft. Over time, we have also learned that members of that organization swear an oath. If they are ever caught, they need to die by whatever means available to them.”

“That seems rather an extreme measure to avoid jail time,” Peter remarked, “but then, on the other hand, dead men can tell no tales.”

Reynald gave a Gaelic shrug, “ _C'est ce qu'il est._ It is what it is, mon ami, and we will keep at our task a bit longer until we persevere.”

A little quiescent fear suddenly resurrected itself from the depths of Peter’s mind. “Did you ever manage to nail down the identities of the two dead men?”

“Of course,” Reynald reassured him with a bit of pride. “In today’s world, likeminded global authorities are very interconnected because of terrorism. We have established that one man was an Algerian named Farid Mokrani, and the second was a South African Boer named Emile Van der Goot. Both had a long history of breaking the law.”

Peter let out a silent breath, reassured that Neal was not part of some deadly cartel, not that Peter could ever conceive of that scenario. He left the prison after offering his thanks to Reynald and extending a likeminded invitation if the Frenchman ever found himself in Peter’s city. He stopped briefly for a cup of coffee and a croissant sandwich at a little bistro on the street and contemplated calling to arrange a return flight to New York. It was disappointing that all his eager effort had ended before it had even started. Then Peter decided to indulge himself. When he had been an active FBI agent on the street, he was always front and center at the scene of any crime. He decided to visit the Louvre and get the lay of the land where a major heist had been stymied in its genesis.

The curator of the Louvre eventually made himself available to Peter when the visiting FBI agent, likewise, made his presence known. The cooperative man took his guest to three different galleries where police tape still hung.

“Mon Dieu, those thieves had the audacity to attempt an atrocity in our respected institution,” the man muttered as he followed up that statement with what were probably a few derogatory words spoken in French. “However, I think you will find that we were more than ready for their feeble attempt because of some recently installed upgrades made by our head of security. That young man is brilliant, and it was due to his forethought and cleverness during these last four years that an impertinent, disgraceful crime was averted. He should be considered a national treasure.”

Peter suddenly perked up. It was probably a long shot but he needed a bit more information. “You said that your security chief has been on the job for four years. What else can you tell me about him?”

The curator’s face turned warmly fond. “Well, his name is Marc Broussard and he has a beautiful wife named Celine and a precious two-year-old daughter. He brings them by frequently for visits. The man is certainly blessed with good fortune.”

“Perhaps I could meet this genius and pick his brain for tidbits that I could pass along to our own fine museums in New York,” Peter said respectfully.

“Ah, but if only that were possible,” the proud man said as his face fell. “Monsieur Broussard avoids publicity and prefers to remain out of the spotlight because he values his privacy. He left this morning with his family for a well-earned holiday. A friend of his owns a small vineyard in Provence, and sometimes Marc joins him for a bit of restful solitude. I can provide a phone number, if you would like.”

“How about an address?” Peter pushed because his gut was suddenly in overdrive. “Perhaps I may rent a car and go to see him in person.”

The curator smiled condescendingly. “Monsieur Burke, Provence in the Cote d’Azur is 500 miles away, and, on the best of days, a very long nine-hour drive.”

“Well, I don’t have anything better to do right now,” Peter stated firmly. “If I travel by car, I’ll get to enjoy your beautiful country up close and personal. That will enable me to return to the United States with beautiful memories.” Peter hoped he wasn’t laying the shmaltzy platitudes on too thick.

It seemed as if all Frenchmen had a dedicated sense of national pride, so it was just minutes later when Peter left the Louvre with Marc Broussard’s whereabouts in his pocket.

Peter rented a small Peugeot at the airport and entered an address into the GPS system. He then sat back and let his thoughts meander during the long drive. What if Marc Broussard did prove to be Neal Caffrey? What would Peter do if the charade was unmasked? For once in his life, Peter was being as impulsive as a certain con man he once knew. He really didn’t have a plan and that nagged at him. He kept picking at the problem like an irritating hangnail.

Halfway to his destination, Peter saw road signs that indicated the city of Lyon was just up ahead over the horizon. Peter had never reset his watch from Eastern Standard Time after he left New York, and he realized that he had been awake for over twenty-four hours and was bone tired. It probably wouldn’t be safe to continue on with his journey that would probably get him to Provence in the dead of night. So, Peter prudently pulled over at a small bed and breakfast that had a vacant room for the night. He thought he would address the crisis of his soul as he lay on the small bed with it’s feather duvet. However, his fatigued body had other ideas. He slept the sleep of the dead, only opening his eyes late the next morning. He grabbed an apple, some slices of cheese, and a crusty roll from the small dining room sideboard after gulping down very strong French coffee. He felt rejuvenated as he set out on the second leg of this odyssey.

After four more hours of travel, Peter discovered that Provence proved to be a little piece of heaven, a mixture of seaside and mountains, bustling towns, and neat little parged and white-washed homes perched like soldiers on nearby hillsides. The GPS enabled Peter to wend his way through narrow serpentine streets for almost an hour until he was once more out in the beautiful countryside. All around him were lush displays of blooming lavender in neat little rows, and he even caught occasional glimpses off in the distance of what were perhaps old stone castles or monasteries from another time in history. Eventually, the snake-like line on the navigational screen informed him that he was close to his destination, and as Peter rounded a small knoll, it told him to make a hard right onto a dusty, unpaved road and proceed for exactly one half mile.

That half mile cut through fields of grape vines laden with lush fruit already ripening in the warm sun. There were beds of red rose bushes at the end of each row, and Peter remembered reading that vintners intentionally planted them to attract bees to pollinate their crop. The grape vines stretched as far as the eye could see over an adjacent hill and finally ended at a small, neat stone cottage with wrought iron grillwork along the periphery. A simple wooden sign hung near the front door which made a visitor aware they had reached _Shangri-La_ _Vignoble._

Now that he was finally here, Peter was almost hesitant to climb from the cramped car. What exactly could he say or do if he found an escaped felon behind that wooden door? Peter knew he had to stop thinking of Neal as a criminal on the run. If he really was a new incarnation named Marc Broussard, the young man appeared to have made a fresh start for himself that seemed legal in every way. And, of course, there was that daunting information about a family. Did Peter really want to tear apart other innocent lives in some misguided quest for justice? Those suspected acts had taken place in what seemed to be another lifetime. Maybe it was much simpler than that. Perhaps Peter was driven by a subconscious desire to say he was sorry for putting Neal’s life in jeopardy all those years ago because he was hurt and angry with his protégé. Looking back on what had transpired, the punishment had been extreme and entirely out of proportion to the crime, and, ultimately, Neal’s death would have been on his hands.

Peter was so mired down in his thoughts that he failed to see the short figure approaching. “Are you planning on getting out of the vehicle anytime soon, Suit, or are you just waiting for reinforcements to arrive before your blitz attack?”

Peter’s head shot up to behold Mozzie glaring at him through the car window. Instead of a wig, the little man had a jaunty red beret perched on his bald dome.

“Bonjour, Mozzie. Love the Gallic touch with the chapeau,” Peter said with a wry smile.

Mozzie snorted. “Neal always said it was only a matter of time before you cropped up like an annoying rash.”

“That’s what he actually said?” Peter asked with eyebrows raised.

Mozzie rolled his eyes. “Not exactly. I added the color commentary about the eczema, but I think it’s apropos.”

“Is he inside?” Peter asked curiously.

“Nope,” Mozzie snapped, “but I’m sure you won’t believe me until you see for yourself. So, come along inside, G-Man, because there is something that I do want you to take in.”

The interior of the quaint cottage had a huge stone-floor kitchen with herbs in clay planters lined up on the window sills and copper pots suspended by hooks from the ceiling. There was the pleasant aroma of bread baking in an oven, and it made Peter start to involuntarily salivate. Meanwhile, Mozzie had taken himself into an adjacent arched great room where he was rummaging in the drawer of an antique-looking bureau. His hand had closed around something and he waved a regal hand indicating that he wanted Peter to join him.

“Have a seat, Suit. There’s some things you need to hear before we go any further.”

Mozzie shoved a small cell phone into Peter’s hands. “Push _play_ to hear a recorded series of time-stamped and dated anonymous phone messages that Neal received over four years ago. You will discover that each message precipitated one of those stupendous heists that got the Bureau, and especially you, into such a tizzy. It will explain a lot, and I hope you kick your own ass all the way back to New York City after the implications sink in.”

Peter eyed Mozzie closely before pushing the _play_ function on the phone. He felt mesmerized as he heard the ominous threats, not only to himself but to his beloved El. Fury welled up in his chest but there was no enemy in sight on whom he could take out his anger. Peter felt impotent and hollow, and now more guilty than ever.

“Why didn’t he tell me, Moz?” Peter uttered miserably.

Mozzie eyed Peter with a glare. “I think he was counting on your trust, Suit, and, when the shit hit the fan, he was sure you’d figure out that he was doing the wrong thing for the _right_ reason. That, my dear Judas, was where you dropped the ball. Your partner was trying to protect you any way that he could, and just look where those noble good intentions got him!” Mozzie ended his tirade in disgust.

“Did either of you ever figure out who left those messages?” Peter asked quietly.

Mozzie just slowly shook his head from side to side.

“I still need to see Neal,” Peter insisted.

“Of course, you do,” Mozzie said tiredly. “Walk down through the vineyard about a quarter of a mile. That’s where you’ll find him, and if you even possess a soul, Suit, you’ll leave him be. But I suppose that’s just not in your nature.”

Peter didn’t respond. He stood slowly and left the stone cottage after softly pulling the door shut behind him. The path was exactly where Mozzie said it would be, and a conflicted man padded through sweet- smelling clover and a copse of olive trees until he could make out human figures below him in front of a deep purple backdrop. A slim, fair-haired woman was seated on a plaid blanket with her legs drawn to the side. She appeared to be very young and quite beautiful with tendrils of blond curls framing her face. Neal was perched in front of her on a little folding seat with a paint brush in his hand applying strokes to her portrait mounted on an easel.  

Neal looked much the same, although he was sun-bronzed and his hair was a bit longer at the nape of his neck. He was smiling and Peter could hear the soft tinkle of the posing woman’s laughter as she watched a nearby tiny cherub of a child chase a butterfly into the lavender. The little girl was quite exquisite, looking like a dark-haired “mini me” version of her father. Peter stood transfixed as the child waved her arms and giggled before falling down on her rump amidst the humongous purple plants. She seemed momentarily flustered, but then raised tiny arms and called for her Papa. Neal put down his paintbrush and scooped the little one high into the air and twirled them both around. The child sang out her delight and she hugged her father fiercely before planting a sloppy kiss on his cheek. Peter didn’t think he had ever seen anything more beautiful. It was like a French version of a Norman Rockwell portrait.  

Peter didn’t know how long he stood there behind a tree covertly spying on this picture-perfect family. It was hard to tear his eyes away from something that seemed so flawless and lovely. After a time, he did manage to turn around and start the climb back up the hill. Peter had come to this magical place in search of Neal Caffrey, but he hadn’t found an escaped con man. Instead, he had happened upon Marc Broussard and his wonderful life. The older man smiled fondly and knew he would return home and leave everyone in peace. It was time to close the book after turning the final page in the story. A once rash overseer who had rushed to judgment finally concluded that he should now be the person doing the _right_ thing for the _right_ reason.


End file.
